Sherlock's Shadowy Past
by Cordelia Noir
Summary: This story was written pre-season 2, but as I am new to this site I am posting it now to get a hang of things. Sherlock has always seemed cold and emotionless to John Watson, but what don't we know about his past? And who might be lurking in the shadows?
1. Miss Adler

John had a lot of things on his mind on January 13th. He had effectively been avoiding taxis after his first adventure with his new flat-mate Sherlock Holmes. Occasionally he rode in them when Sherlock was with him, mostly because he didn't want to look like a complete wimp, but on the whole John had avoided cabs for the last several months. But Sherlock didn't shop. For anything. Ever. So he had spent the better part of the morning riding the tube to various parts of London picking up an equally assorted array of groceries. He was currently carrying, among other things, formaldehyde, eggs, toothpaste, bullets and a vast quantity of milk. God only knew what Sherlock had been doing with the last six containers that had been bought in the last week, maybe just pouring it down the drain, but John was getting awfully tiered of waking up to dry breakfast cereal because a certain flat-mate had used/drank/poured out all of it. Plus for the last week or so John had been more or less living at Sarah's because it was utterly impossible to get any sleep with Sherlock sawing away at his very out of tune violin day and night. Moreover he had chosen that day _not_ to mind the gap between the tube and station platform and had ended up with a twisted ankle and a full container of spilt milk which he had only just managed not to cry over.

If he lived with any normal person, he would be able to sit in a large cushy armchair and perhaps watch some nice trash television or take a hot bath. But John has no such delusions. He lives with Sherlock Holmes. And he seriously doubts that Sherlock has stopped playing terrible violin music long enough to even notice John had left.

No, John had no fantasies of a comfortable homecoming, but he did expect to get in the door.

Instead a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties (who John couldn't help noticing was very attractive) was pacing in front of the door to the flat he shared with the consulting detective. She was dressed almost entirely in a light shade of blue that made her pale skin and dark hair stand out. She was wearing dark sunglasses and a bright shade of red lipstick that would have looked garish on anyone else. It only made her look a little bit like Snow White… or a Vampire.

"Um…" John began, trying unsuccessfully to start a conversation, "Er… can I, uh… help… you?" He had a feeling this was not the way to initiate a conversation with such a beautiful young lady, but the damage was already done.

She looked around quickly, as if surprised to find him speaking to her.

"Oh no, of course not." She said dismissively with a wave of a blue-gloved hand.

Six months ago, John might have been insulted by being so dismissed, but living with Sherlock had gotten him accustomed to a host of strange things, being dismissed as one would by the queen being among them. So he dug his key out of his pocket and started towards the door.

"You don't live here."

John started and turned back towards the woman with an incredulous expression.

"221b Bakers street. You don't live here. Sherlock Holmes lives here."

John sighed and turned back towards the door to open it. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes does live here, but so do I. If you have a case I bet he'd really appreciate it. Hell, I'd really appreciate it. He's getting on my nerves."

"Wait," she said, laughter flickering through her words, "Are you try to tell me that you," She had to pause to restrain a laugh, "Live with Sherlock?"

John could put up with a lot of things, he really could, but the gay joke was getting very old very fast. He turned around again and stared her in the eyes, or more accurately, the sunglasses.

"Yes. I live upstairs and he lives downstairs. We share the rent."

She reached up with one finger and lowered her sunglasses with one sky-blue finger revealing a pair of startling green eyes. "You're John Watson?"

"Uh… yes?"

Her eyebrows shot out of sight into her chestnut colored bangs and she flashed the smile of someone who smiles easily and often. "You're not sure whether you're John Watson or not?"

"Of course I'm sure…"

"You're a saint."

"…But I still have no idea who you are."

"Ah yes, of course." She flashed her blindingly white teeth again and offered forward her right hand as if she expected him to kiss it. "I'm Irene Adler."

John awkwardly shifted all of the groceries to one arm and gingerly shook the extended hand. "John Watson."

"Yes, I know. I do believe we just went over that."

"Oh, well… um." John mumbled as a hot flush crept up his neck.

"Don't be embarrassed." Ms. Adler said finally removing her Gucci sunglasses and placing them in her matching sky-blue bag. "As I said a moment ago, anyone who can put up with sharing a flat with Sherlock is a saint."

John felt his blush deepening. "I'm no saint."

Irene studied him for a moment. "Mycroft said you were modest, but you ought to know it. I wouldn't put up with him for a week, let alone six months."

"Well, I'm… you know… broke. I need the help with the rent."

"Yes, yes," She said impatiently, "And Sherlock needs someone to tell him to not leave body parts in the sink and to remind him to eat something every once in a while. But after six months with Seῆor Sociopath, Mycroft would pay for your lodging anywhere you wanted for the rest of your life and you damn well know it. No, no Mr. Watson. What you need has nothing to do with your obvious financial problems. What you need is the adventure you miss from Afghanistan. And what I need is for you to let me in. - Do you want some help with those groceries?"

"How could you possibly know about all that?"

"Well, your outfit says it all, but most of that was from your blog, actually. Are you sure you don't want me to take some of those?"

John tightened his hold on the groceries a bit possessively as they seemed to be the only things still making sense.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, "I'm still just trying to understand who you are."

She smiled again, almost like she was laughing at him. "I'm sorry, that was rather rude of me, wasn't it? As I said, I'm Irene Adler. I work for Mycroft on occasion, but only when he has interesting enough targets. I was in Sherlock's year at boarding school but I went to the girls school down the road and dated Mycroft once or twice. As a result I got to know Sherlock rather well. If he was a normal person you might consider me his friend, but he doesn't really have those now does he? Except for you of course… but you're useful to him too. I suppose you might lump us in the same category…" She trailed off, scrutinizing him with her disconcerting green eyes.

They just stood there staring at each other for quite a while until a woman, whose standard poodle was watering a near-by fire hydrant, started giving them very odd looks.

"I'm sorry. I'm being rude. Would you like to come in?"

She smiled slightly, not exposing any teeth this time. It was somehow far more entrancing than her large grins, more mysterious…

"I told you," she began as she started pulling off her blue-swade gloves, "You need Sherlock for his adventure, and I need you for your key to the flat."

He must have looked as shocked as he felt because she continued by way of explanation, "I could probably pick the lock, but that takes time and people tend to notice when you try to overtly break an entering in broad daylight."

"You could have rang."

"Tried that. He must not have heard… probably playing the violin. Beethoven, am I right?"

"Oh, is that what it's supposed to be? It just sounded like off-key screeching to me."

"Oh dear, it hasn't gotten that bad has it? It _is_ only the twelfth."

"Actually, it's the thirteenth, but I don't see what the date has to do with anything."

"What?"

The poodle with the abnormally large bladder an its owner turned in response to the high decimal just issued from 221b's doorstep. John had to wonder if his hair had turned white from the sound.

"Oh God I'm late," she started rambling and taking the grocery bags from John quickly, "Do open the door. Please?"

John couldn't think of anything else he wanted to do more. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't single. On the contrary he had a very nice girlfriend who had allowed him to sleep on her couch for the last week and he certainly wasn't going to throw all that away on some friend of Sherlock's, no matter how attractive she was. Fortunately, John's search for a non-lame pick-up line was interrupted by the most beautiful violin music issuing from upstairs.

"Handel's violin sonata in G minor." Irene murmured as she shoved the shopping bags back into John's arms.

"What?" John queried, half-distracted as he tried to save a doomed can of beans currently falling out of the brown paper grocery bag.

"Hey Doofus!" Irene called up the stairs.

The Violin sonata came to a sudden, screeching halt.


	2. Miss Hunter

_**Six Years Earlier **_

"And this is the lab, of course." Claudia tossed her straight, dark hair behind her white-clad shoulder. "Lab coats and goggles must be worn at all times while in this room. Mr. Holmes is very particular about deadlines, but as long as you get your work completed on time, feel free to adhere to your own work hours. People pop in and out, but most of the time you'll have the place to yourself. You won 't have people under toe, but if you want people in here, then that is of course acceptable." Claudia looked as if she had given this speech to more than a few new lab workers, managing to look worried and utterly bored simultaneously. But the new lab employee didn't entirely look like she was listening. In fact she seemed much more interested in something, or more accurately someone, sitting at one of the high lab tables.

"So, Violet, I think you'll find everything you need has already been provided - it's all in your desk-" Here, Claudia was interrupted by a very loud beep from her blackberry. After reading the text she finished up the conversation quickly, "So I've got to run, but all the things that you're to do are on your desk. Oh, and don't talk to him." She concluded with a nod to the dark haired figure at the other lab table before she rushed from the room, probably to the aid their mutual employer, a certain Mycroft Holmes.

Violet watched her go and waited until the door out of the lab clicked shut. This was fast becoming the weirdest job she'd ever taken. She was in a well supplied lab room, able to keep whatever hours she chose next a strange (and attractive) young man that she wasn't supposed to talk to (who she couldn't help but notice was wearing neither a lab coat nor goggles), being employed by a man she had never met. She didn't make a habit of being estranged from her employer, but the salary was worth it.

Most of her life she had ignored money. She had spent two years in Africa for the peace core and after that her love for her work had helped her maintain a comfortable lifestyle on the outskirts of London. But after two months of unemployment Violet was getting desperate. So when a ridiculously high paying job had come around, she had jumped at the opportunity.

As quietly as possible, so as not to disturb her lab partner, Violet started perusing though the contents of the nearby drawers and the small stack of tasks she had been hired to complete. There were nine or ten note cards with hand written notes describing things to do (_Determine paternity of fetus A ; can be found in freezer to right_, or _Record the decomposition process of chemical B in left hand drawer_) along with the date they must be completed by. First she organized the cards alphabetically, then thought better of it and put them in order of deadline.

She glanced over at the man across the room. He seemed completely engrossed in whatever he was doing, and completely uninterested in whatever she was doing. In fact, he seemed completely unaware of her very presence in the room. She wasn't expecting him to start on a monologue welcoming her to the office, but she did at least expect a "hello." She'd even settle for a wave or nod. Maybe he was deaf or something. But why was she not supposed to talk to him?

He was relatively attractive, but she wouldn't classify him as drop-dead gorgeous, and she doubted that was the reason for the verbal taboo. His clothes were impeccably tailored to show off his slender frame, but obviously his dress choices here not out of vanity because his raven curls were tousled and unkempt. Fortunately for him, his dark hair stood out against his ethereally-pale skin and plum shirt (which had been rolled up to the elbows revealing two nicotine patches) making him look like a very sexy corpse. His eyes were pressed into the viewing lenses of a microscope, so he couldn't possibly see her staring, but it also kept Violet from seeing his eyes. She couldn't exactly say why, but she really wanted to see this man's eyes. People often say that the eyes are the window to the soul… perhaps she wanted a glimpse into his soul. Perhaps she just wanted to do something "against the rules."

"Hello!" She said finally, trying to shove every ounce of cheery she possessed into the word.

"You don't listen very well." he said without looking up from his work.

"Sorry?"

"Claudia told you not to talk to me, but here you are, only a minute and forty-three seconds later, you come up with a cheery conversation starter." he said it all very bluntly, as if he began all conversations this way. Then again, perhaps he did.

"Um, well then…" Violet floundered, her cheeriness effectively squashed, "I'm Violet Hunter, the new lab employee."

"Yes, I know."

"How could you-"

"Claudia called you Violet and told you to get yourself acquainted with the place. Mycroft also mentioned to me that he was hiring a certain Ms. Hunter to work in the labs and to make a point not to scare you off. Obvious."

"Hum!" Violet mumbled, mostly because she couldn't think of a more intelligent response, "Do you, um, always start conversations like this?"

"Usually, yes."

There was a moment of silence where Violet tried, and failed, to come up with a quippy response.

"Why did they think you would scare me off?"

"I've pissed off several of your predecessors."

"Oh." Violet spent a few moments trying to figure out how this man could have insulted so many people, unless you counted the petulant refusal to make eye contact. "Are you some sort of sexual predator."

That seemed to amuse him.

"No. Defiantly not."

"Psychopath?"

"I believe the term the doctors use is high-functioning sociopath."

"Oh. I always get it mixed up, is it the psychopaths who have killed someone or the sociopaths?"

He glanced up then, not at her, but at the wall. Still, it was an improvement.

"Technically neither. But if I were to kill someone then it would automatically lump me into the psychopath category. Technically, however you can be a psychopath without any homicidal urges."

Violet blinked once before regaining her wits.

"I'm sure we'll get along swimmingly then." and turned back to her work. If he wanted to talk he could jolly well take an active part in the conversation.

Across the room, the man had swiveled on his chair to stare at her.

Eventually he did say something, even though it was a monosyllable. "What?"

"I said that if you are neither sexual predator or a homicidal maniac, then I'm sure we'll get along swimmingly."

"Nor."

"Beg your pardon?" Violet said coolly, completely ignoring him as she continued to open up drawers and shuffle through their contents.

"Neither a sexual predator, nor a homicidal maniac. Not 'or.' 'Or' is just bad grammar."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." More paper shuffling.

"But that's not what I meant."

"Alright then, what did you mean?" She said turning towards him at last.

She had to suppress a gasp. His eyes were enchanting. Not quite blue, not quite green, and hovering just on the brink of grey, they looked out of place in his face. The high contrast between his hair and his skin should have made all other colors look insignificant, but it was as if someone had dropped two storm-tossed waves into his irises. Grey turbulence thrashed about in his eyes, simultaneously drawing her in and pushing her away.

"What I meant was," He said, awakening her from her eye-induced stupor, "most people wear their pasts, emotions, thoughts. They wear them like clothes. You don't."

"Well thank God for that." She murmured, trying to make a joke out of the awkward situation, but he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"Even now. I know you're surprised to see me looking at you, and a little embarrassed, but I have no idea why."

"What are you, psychic? Or does that just go with sociopathy?"

"I'm observant, that's all."

"Really, 'cause to me it just seems like you're nosey." She said, turning back to her work.

"Don't get upset –"

"For your information, I have gone to great lengths to forget the past and move on with my life. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't try and figure out anything further about me."

"So you see why you shouldn't have talked to me?"

"What?"

"I piss everybody off."

She turned back to face him, but he'd already turned back to his desk. She stared at him for a while before Claudia came back in to check on her.

"Doing alright?"

"Yes. Thank you." But she was far from alright. A complex mixture of emotions was wreaking havoc on her nerves, and it was only 9:30 in the morning. Maybe this job hadn't been such a good idea.

"Sherlock darling!" Irene called up the stairs as she started up them with John in toe.

"Go away Irene."

"Absolutely not."

The pair had reached the top of the stairs at this point and could see into the flat's main room. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, facing away from the door so that the only parts of him visible from the doorway were his stockinged feet propped on the far arm of the couch, and the hands still clutching the violin and bow now resting on his chest.

"How are you feeling?" Irene said sounding, for the first time, like she actually cared about the answer.

Sherlock turned to face her as if he was shocked she would as such a stupid question. Irene sighed in return.

"I know you hate to hear this darling, but it's time to move on. Going into unresponsive mode every January isn't going to bring her back. Have you started dating again?"

Sherlock snorted and went back to the violin sonata.

John nearly dropped the groceries. Sherlock? _Dating?_ What the hell was going on here? But John had learned a few things from his time in the army. One of the being, when things get weird, don't ask questions and certainly don't get involved. He'd never really been good at the second part, but in this case he decided to shut up and put away the groceries. By the time he got back Sherlock hadn't stopped playing and Irene hadn't stopped talking.

"I mean I understand wanting to spend a period of time mourning her death, but this is absurd, Sherly. Violet died ages ago, and lying here on the couch isn't going to do anything –"

John didn't see Sherlock stop playing or get up, but he did see him step gracefully over the coffee table and stop about two inches from the tip of Irene's nose. Even in his stocking feet, Sherlock was a good six inches taller than the woman, despite the fact that she had on high heels.

"Fuck off Irene." he practically spat the words in her face before his eyes sharpened, focusing more acutely on her face. "How much is he paying you?"

"Two million quid, so get your lazy but upstairs and get your shoes on. We're going on a field trip."

"Two million? I'm flattered. Jesus got sold out for only thirty pieces of silver."

"Inflation."She said dismissively, moving the union-jack pillow so she could sit down in the armchair. "Don't feed your ego."

Sherlock seemed to teeter there for a moment, trying to decide what to do, before going up the stairs, presumably to find a pair of shoes. John thought now might be a good time to get some answers.

"Two million pounds?" he said a bit disbelievingly to the woman making herself perfectly at home in his flat.

"Oh, yeah. Mycroft pays me to babysit Sherlock every once in a while."

"Oh?" John said a bit disbelievingly, wondering just how much money he had given up by not spying on Sherlock for the nosey older brother. "Who's Violet then?"

Now it was Irene's turn to look disbelieving. "He's never told you about Violet?"

"Uh, no."

"Oh." She said softly. "Well, Violet was his fiancé."


End file.
